Control
by Cookie Dust
Summary: Harry Dresden self-harms. His friends find out.


This was written as a response to the DF Kink Meme (found on dreamwidth) prompt: Can I have some hurt-comfort with Harry self-harming (being all "it's not a big deal, I just need to release some pressure,") and someone finding out? I don't much mind who, or whether it's shippy or gen. Bonus if Harry's still ultra-snarky about the whole thing.

* * *

It's my first case with Nick. We find the little girl but she's dead, her tiny body buried in some pervert's backyard. The guy's dead now. Later Nick takes me out and gets me drunk. It doesn't make me forget what I'd seen, but it makes me forget he's there when he dumps me in my bedroom. I stumble off the bed, find my knife and the first aid kit and draw a circle on the floor at the foot of my bed. Nick walks back in just before I make the first incision and drops the water he's carrying.

"Jesus Christ, kid, what the hell are you doing?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, just hauls me up, eying the old scars on my biceps. "This shit's rough, kid, but you gotta find a better way to deal with it. You can't go around doing crazy shit like this. You're gonna end up killing yourself."

He leaves me to sleep off the booze. Next time we get a tough case, I tell him I've started yoga. He laughs at me. Then one day I use my shirt as a bandage and he sees the lie carved in my skin.

* * *

I don't know how Murphy works it out. One day she gives me the number of a psychologist called Doctor Goode and tells me to get myself an appointment. I blink and ask why and she gives me that no-nonsense scowl and says, "You know why."

A couple of weeks later she asks me if I went to see Goode and I tell her no. She asks me if wizards are immune to mental pain.

"We're still human, Murphy," I reply.

"So go see her, Dresden. She's nice, I hear."

"But I don't need a psychologist," I point out, baffled as to why she thinks I would. She rakes her gaze over my form, eyes lingering uncomfortably long on my biceps, then flicks her eyes up to my face and stares at me for a long moment. I say nothing and try not to fidget uncomfortably, telling myself I won't look at her face because I want to avoid a soulgaze. Then she shakes her head and turns back to the man who froze to death in an apartment with no A/C and no electricity on what was so far the hottest day of the year.

"Yeah, Dresden, you do."

* * *

Susan surprises me. She doesn't mention it when she comes to visit me in hospital after I take down Victor Sells. She doesn't mention it on our second date, even when we're stumbling over our feet in a hurry to get to my bed. Later, I reflect that not mentioning it was probably only sensible because awkward conversations about the cuts and scars on my arms are a sure fire way to kill anyone's libido, but at the time I'm nervous and worried and every time her fingers brush across my biceps I tense just a little.

I'm first up in the morning and I dress and make breakfast. We eat in bed and make small talk, and I don't realise how wound up I am until she touches my arm and opens her mouth to say something and I snap.

"I'm not crazy!"

She reels back and I regret the words. I apologise meekly. She accepts it with a squeeze of my hand.

"If you ever want to talk about it, I'll listen."

No one ever said that before, but by the time I feel ready to take her up on the offer, it's too late and she's leaving.

* * *

"Harry, you should see someone about this."

"I'm fine, Thomas."

"You're hurting yourself!"

"It's nothing, alright? Just drop it."

"Drop it? Are you for real? Harry, this is serious."

"It's got nothing to do with you."

"I'm your brother. Do you think I like seeing you hurt?"

"... No, of course not. But this isn't – it's not like – it makes me feel better, alright?"

"How can hurting yourself make you feel better?"

"I don't know. It just does. Can we not talk about this?"

"No, Harry, we can't. You can't keep doing this to yourself. How long has it been going on, anyway? Why do you do it? You can't really think it's a good idea."

"I told you, it helps. Just drop it, will you?"

"No, I – Harry, stop. Harry!"

"Let go. I'm leaving."

"No. You're staying here and fucking talking to me. I'm your brother, I have a right to know what the hell is going on with you."

"Just because you're my brother doesn't mean you get to nose in on my business! Let go of me so I can go to work. One of us has to earn this month's goddamn rent. I'll see you later."

* * *

Michael's the only one who ever manages to make me feel bad about it, and he doesn't even try. Nick has, Murphy has, Thomas has – but their attempts only made me angry. Maybe that's why. I've always had attitude, refusing to give in to people's expectations of me.

But Michael doesn't say anything about how hurting myself hurts the ones I love, or how it's unhealthy, or how I need to get help. He smiles kindly and says he'll always be there for me if I need him, no matter the situation or the time of day, and he mentions that the Lord is always willing to listen to anyone who needs to talk.

But I can see in his eyes that it bothers him. There's a pain in his eyes that's different to what I've seen in Nick's, Murphy's or Thomas's eyes, and it bugs me to no end. It takes me a while to realise that they're hurt by the fact that I harm myself, whereas Michael is hurt that I have a reason to hurt myself.

At the same time, I realise that that reason died with Justin, and I'm suddenly asking myself why I do this.

* * *

"Dresden, you can't control everything."

Marcone's words surprise me. He's sat opposite me, irritatingly unruffled by the demon pounding on the door of his panic room.

"What are you talking about?"

"The demon is not your fault."

"It's here to kill me, Marcone."

"Regardless, its current presence is not your fault, so you can cease beating yourself up over it."

His gaze is on my hands. I glance down, surprised to see I've almost scratched through the skin without even realising. I jerk them apart and resist the urge to sit on them.

Later, when the demon is dead and I'm trying to bleed out the stress and adrenaline and lingering terror, Marcone's words echo through my head. They baffle me, because between the demons, faeries and fallen angels invading my life, I'm never in control of anything. About the only thing in my life I _can_ control are the injuries I inflict on myself – where they go, how much they hurt, how long they bleed before I patch them up.

The realisation hits me like a sledgehammer, but comes with a certain relief that I finally have an answer to the question that's been bothering me for so long.


End file.
